Black Noon (20 page)

Deliverance was not alone in the shed. As usual her cat was with her. But unlike last night her companion was not Jonathon Keyes . . . at least, not yet.

Bethia stood beside her at the workbench. Deliverance smiled as she performed her nightly ritual on the misshapen wax image of Lorna. But Bethia was not smiling, as the burning candles cast eerie shadows on the walls.

“I'm afraid it's going to happen, Miss Deliverance.”

“What's going to happen?”

“That they're going to leave tomorrow.”

“Are they?”

“They're all ready.”

“Are they?”

“I helped them pack just like you told me.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, ma'am. And the Reverend seems agreeable to leaving.”

“Does he?”

The smile seemed to be painted on Deliverance's face as her eyes and hands never left the wax figure of Lorna.

“Bethia.”

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Last night the Reverend seemed agreeable to something else . . . didn't he?”

“Why, yes, ma'am.” For the first time a smile appeared on the face of Bethia Thorton.

But Deliverance's smile turned to cruel edges as her fingers and thumbs were still at work on the wax image of Lorna.

“‘Tomorrow . . . and tomorrow . . . and tomorrow . . . creeps in this petty pace from day to day.'”

“What's that mean, ma'am?”

“It means . . . ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.'”

 

 

Caleb was at his desk looking at a map and puffing on his ever-present pipe, and Joseph was half asleep on his faithful rocker. As Keyes entered the room Caleb looked up, released a pattern of blue smoke, and smiled.

“Oh, I'm glad you came down, Jon. I was hoping we could have a little farewell talk tonight.”

“Caleb,” Keyes nodded and sighed, “I'd like a farewell drink of that brandy, if you don't mind.”

“Don't mind at all, m'boy, a capital idea. We'll all have one . . . or two.”

“‘Use a little wine,'” Joseph rocked and smiled, “‘for thy stomach's sake and thine infirmities.'”

Caleb rose and moved to the sideboard.

“I'm only sorry that this has to be a farewell drink.”

“So am I.”

“You know, m'boy, there's an old saying, ‘the shortest farewells are the best,' well, I don't believe that. I believe in long, long farewells,” Caleb smiled as he poured the drinks and offered them to Keyes and Joseph. “Why can't we linger over this farewell for, say, ten or twenty years at least?”

“Caleb, I know that you're saying that in jest, but . . .”

“Well, I am . . . and I'm not . . .”

“Caleb, please, we've gone over this before, and now my wife's even worse . . . she's near hysteria. There's just no reasoning with her. If we don't leave tomorrow I'm afraid she's liable to break down completely . . . and I've got to get her to a doctor as soon as possible.”

“I understand, m'boy.” He raised his glass. “Confusion to the enemy.”

“Good health and good fortune, gentlemen.”

“‘Take of the spirit which is upon thee. '” Joseph sipped, then rocked.

Caleb made one last effort, even though he knew it was in vain.

“The pity of it, m'boy, it's just that there's so much you could do here.”

“Somebody else'll have to do it.”

“Well, in that case, as I mentioned before, we'll do everything we can to help you. The wagon's repaired and loaded with most of your things. You'll have fresh horses, the best in the stable”—he walked back to the desk and picked up a map—“and a map to guide you out of the desert and all the way to Saguaro.”

Caleb handed the map to Keyes.

“Thank you, Caleb . . . for ever ything.”

“M'boy, we're in your debt. There's no way of telling you how much.”

Keyes folded the map and put it in his pocket.

“Good night.”

“By the bye, would you like Joseph and some of the others to ride with you part of the way through the desert, and . . .”

“Thanks. I think it's best we leave alone . . . Oh, good evening, Bethia.”

“Good evening, Reverend. I just took a tray out to Miss Deliverance.”

“Then she's going to work late tonight?”

“I believe she's going to spend the night there . . . you know she spends the night there sometimes . . .”

“Yes, I know.”

“Can I fix you something, sir?”

“No, thanks. Well, everyone, it's getting late; I'd better get upstairs and . . .”

“Aren't you going to say good night to Miss Deliverance, sir?” There was an ever so slight change in Bethia's tone as she smiled just as slightly.

“I'll . . . I'll see you all in the morning. Good night.”

Lorna lay sleeping, a fractious, but deep sleep, deep enough so that she would likely be unaware of his coming and going.

He walked to the window and saw that light, the light of transgression . . . of temptation. He stood and watched as does a moth to the flame.

He could not deny the temptation as does “the bawdy wind that kisses all it meets.”

Deep within there reined that goodness that had “pleased heaven to try him with affliction” . . . “had rained all kinds of sores and shame on his bare head,” as was Othello's plight. But this time Keyes would blow out the candle of the wicked and turn away.

And that's what he did . . . turn away.

But he faced another challenge.

The mirror.

The mirror across the room.

For the first time in a long while he was brimming with courage . . . at least enough mettle to face the mirror.

He walked across the room and tilted the mirror making sure he was looking directly into it . . . face to face.

But not for long.

His image became that of the bruised and bloodied man reaching out in desperation, and to one side stood Moon with a serpentine smile and gunman's stance, ready to draw. On the other side, Deliverance, cool and confident, beckoning without moving . . . a silent, standing summons.

Keyes's gaze went from the bruised man to Moon to Deliverance . . . to the Bible on the dresser, then . . . to the rifle leaning against the wall near the dresser.

He reached out, grabbed the Henry by the barrel with one hand and the other hand grasped the rifle's brass breech. He lifted the Henry shoulder high and slammed it stock first into the mirror with an ear-piercing crash as shards scattered onto the dresser, and the broken mirror fell to the floor with a clatter loud enough to rouse Lorna to her elbows.

“Jonathon . . . are you all right?”

He leaned the Henry against the wall, turned to her, and took a breath.

“Yes, Lorna. I'm . . . all right.”

“But this time the mirror is broken. How?”

“I broke it.” He almost smiled. “And now maybe we'll have seven more years of good luck.”

The bedroom held only a few of the items that the Keyes had brought with them.

Keyes stood in the center of the room with the Bible in his hand, looking around with a sweeping glance; the Henry rifle leaning against the wall with the red scarf now tied around its barrel, the wedding portrait of Jon and Lorna on the bed stand.

Lorna, dressed in traveling clothes, sat on the straight-back chair near the bed. She appeared to be in great discomfort, doing her best not to show it, but failing in the attempt.

Keyes walked past her to the bed stand, reached down, picked up the wedding portrait, looked at it, and smiled at Lorna, who either didn't have the strength or the inclination to smile back.

Keyes placed the picture in a valise on the floor near the open bedroom door.

From the front of the Hobbses' house there came a chorus of singing voices. It sounded as if the entire citizenry had gathered to serenade the departing couple.

They began with a familiar refrain:

Over the last line of the song there was a knock on the open door.

Keyes turned to see Caleb and Joseph.

“May we come in, m'boy?”

“Of course.”

But the serenaders were not through. They continued with another familiar refrain:

“Well, Jon, the wagon's out front and so is what was to be your congregation. Is there anything . . .”

The answer came from Lorna . . . a painful moan as she clutched at her head with both hands, then fainted and fell to the floor.

Keyes moved quickly, lifted her, and placed her in the bed. She was unconscious and likely worse.

Bethia was at the door and entered the room as Caleb took a step closer to Keyes.

“Well, Jon,” there was compassion in his voice, “I'm afraid you will be staying . . . a little longer.”

Bethia walked to the head of the bed, looked down at Lorna, then toward the window and the shed below.

Reconstruction of the church had started almost as soon as the citizens of San Melas had stopped singing.

Just after Caleb announced that the Reverend's wife had a relapse and that the two of them would be staying for the time being, the crowd dispersed, and the sounds of sawing and hammering were once again echoing on the construction site.

Caleb Hobbs had assumed his usual shady station and was smoking his usual pipe while overseeing the toilers.

“M'boy, I'm glad to see you out in the open. It does neither you nor Lorna any good for you to stay cooped up in that room when she doesn't even know you're there.”

“She seems to, from time to time, Caleb, but Bethia is there for the time being. By the way I'm sorry about that broken mirror.”

“Think nothing of it, Reverend. But what happened?”

“It fell,” Keyes answered rather awkwardly.

“I see,” Caleb nodded just as awkwardly.

“Caleb, there's something I wanted to ask you.”

“Please do.”

“According to that map . . .”

“What map?”

“The one you gave me to get us through the desert and to Saguaro . . . I've got it right here . . . somewhere,” he went through one pocket, then another, “. . . yes, here it is . . .”

“What about it?”

“Well, it looks to me like there's a place less than seventy miles or so, to the southwest, although that part of the map seems rubbed out . . . or something spilled on it. Look here . . .”

“Where?”

Keyes's finger pinpointed the spot on the map.

“Can you make out the name, Caleb?”

“No, Jon, I can't. These orbs aren't what they used to be.”

“Looks like Tree . . . Tree Cross . . . sound familiar?”

“No,” Caleb shook his head and puffed on his pipe.

“Wait, let me hold it up against the sunlight. Yes . . . Tre-s, Tres Cr-u-s—yes, s-e-s. That's it, Tres Cruses. You must've heard of it, haven't you?”

“Tres Cruses, yes, now that you mention it . . . sounds vaguely familiar. We don't leave this vicinity very often, you know.”

“Well, it's on the map and San Melas isn't. It must be more than some small village.”

“Jon, what are you getting at?”

“A doctor. That's what I'm getting at. There must be a doctor in Tres Cruses.”

“What if there is?”

“If there is, and I can get Lorna there . . .”

“How?”

“In the wagon, how else?”

“The Conestoga?”

Keyes nodded.

“Jon, make sense.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, less than halfway there in the desert, in her condition, you'd be hauling . . . I hate to say this, m'boy, but you'd be hauling a dead body . . . a corpse.”

There was a shrug of acknowledged disappointment in Keyes's shoulders.

“You're probably right.”

“Of course I am. But . . .”

Caleb took a contemplative puff on his pipe.

“But what, Caleb?”

“There might be another way.”

“How's that?”

“If we send a rider to Tres Cruses, our best rider . . .”

“Who would that be?”

“Sam Hawkins . . . he'd bring back a doctor, if there is one in Tres Cruses . . . maybe even in time for your sermon. But either way it's a better chance than trying to transport Lorna all those miles through the burning desert. Meanwhile, the best thing for her is rest.”

“You're right, Caleb, absolutely right.” Keyes smiled. “When can Sam get started?”

“Right now, m'boy. Sam!” Hobbs held up his pipe and motioned. “Sam Hawkins, come over here and come a'running.”

It didn't take long for Caleb to explain the mission to Sam Hawkins as Keyes handed him the map.

Less than an hour later Hawkins mounted his best horse in front of the stable as Keyes and Caleb watched.

“Mr. Hawkins, I can't tell you how obliged Lorna and I are for what you're doing. God bless you.”

“Reverend, after all you've done for us, I'd ride through hell's thorns for you. If there's a doctor there I'll bring him here one way or t'uther, even if I have to hog-tie and carry him on my back.”

Sam Hawkins rode off to beat the devil.

Joseph and a couple of other men had brought up the trunk and some of the other items that had been loaded on the Conestoga.

Bethia had cleaned up the mess from the broken mirror.

Keyes sat on the straight-back chair near the bed holding the wedding portrait while Lorna still lay on the bed, her face twisting in pain from time to time but unaware of anything or anyone in the room.

“Is there anything else I can do to help, sir?”

“No, thanks, Bethia.”

She nodded and left the room.

“I'll ask the same question, Reverend,” Joseph said, “we've brought up everything we think you'll need while you're here . . . unless you can think of anything else.”

“No thank you, Joseph. I'll just sit here in case she regains consciousness.”

“Yes, Reverend, ‘until the spirit be poured on her from on high.'”

Keyes looked at the wedding portrait in his hand then at Lorna. He spoke to her knowing she was mostly unaware of what he said but hoping that just the sound of his voice might be of some comfort.

“Our wedding day, Lorna. Custer, Best Man, Libbie, Matron of Honor. I was as nervous as a crab in a heated pot . . . Custer's words of advice . . . and I guess you could call it encouragement: ‘Sport,' he grinned, ‘remember what I always said going into battle? I said ‘charge to the sound of the guns,' well, at my wedding and now at yours, all I can say is ‘charge to the sound of the church organ.'

“And that's what I did, Lorna . . . what we did . . . and our path through life together has been a very gracious thing. And it's going to be even better. Lorna, I hope you can hear this . . . we've sent for a doctor . . . a doctor on his way with medicine to help you recover so we can be on our way to Saguaro. It won't be long now—so hang on, Lorna . . . hang on.”

The daylight hours crept by into the tenderloin of night when Bethia came back into the room.

“Sir, you've been here all hours of the day. Can I fix you something to eat? The others already have . . .”

“No, Bethia, thank you, but I have no appetite.”

“Then I suggest you get a little night air, Reverend. And a good exercise of the legs will be beneficial. You've been sitting in that chair till you're all cramped up. Go on now, I'll sit here with the missus.”

“Maybe you're right, Bethia.” He rose and put the wedding portrait on the bed stand. “I'll be back soon.”

When Keyes left the room, Bethia went to the window and looked down at the backyard.

Downstairs he started for the front door where he might have sat on one of the porch chairs, or even Joseph's rocker, or on one of the steps . . . but he stopped. Out front he knew he would avoid Deliverance, however, since they would have to stay in San Melas for days, maybe weeks more, it would be impossible to avoid her all that time. If, on the other hand, he went out back, there was the possibility of seeing her.

He decided to go out back.

Not because he was tempted, but because, if he did see her, he wanted to test his will. To be able to look at her, talk to her, and turn the other way.

That's the reason he gave himself for deciding to move toward the back door.

 

 

The setting was out of an Arabian Nights tale. Quiescent. Timeless. With an armada of stars floating in a sea of marine blue serenity.

Keyes sat on the tree stump, his head immersed in the palms of both hands, with drifting thoughts of things to come.

“Jon.”

Her voice.

He looked up.

She stood as before, as if challenging him to look away.

He didn't.

“I thought you might have . . .” she smiled, “. . . forgotten me.”

“I've been with Lorna as much as I could . . .”

“Does she know it, even if her eyes are open, but her senses shut? Is she aware of anything?”

“I'm not sure. I've been doing what I think is best.”

“Best for whom?”

“For all of us.”

“Sometimes, Jon, you just ooze of goodness. Sometimes. . .”

“Deliverance, please . . .”

“The poet wrote it, ‘the world's a stage' . . . peopled by mummers who can make it a tragedy, or a fairy tale where the leading players can live happily ever after.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“But, what, Jon?”

“In this fairy tale . . . who are the ‘leading players'?”

“That . . . is the question.”

It wasn't a question; it was an invitation.

Keyes rose.

He looked into her eyes.

Paused.

Then walked past her toward the Hobbses' house.

Deliverance remained sangfroid, confident that there was more to come.